


Because I'm Happiest When I'm With You

by Ancient_K



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Grantaire, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Teacher Enjolras, Vomiting, les amis are good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:48:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ancient_K/pseuds/Ancient_K
Summary: The next few days absolutely exhaust him. Before his daily phone calls with Grantaire, he chugs water with honey to soothe the growing harshness of his voice. When Grantaire asked him if he was alright Enjolras brushed him off with a smile but he can't hide the bags under his eyes. Enjolras is well aware that it’s getting bad.Enjolras is sick while Grantaire is away.
Relationships: Combeferre & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 104





	Because I'm Happiest When I'm With You

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing anything Les Mis related so please be kind.

There are two weeks left. Two more weeks and then Grantaire is back and everything is fine. Enjolras can manage for two more weeks.

For the past month and a half, Grantaire had been living his dream. He was touring around Europe, watching his art being installed in the galleries which he so dearly loved. His name is right beside his idols. Enjolras had responded to every 2:00 am panic call and face timed in just to see the way Grantaire smiled. 

They had an agreement. Grantaire could talk about the differences between acrylic and oil paint for hours so long as Enjolras was able to lecture about the importance of the Haitian Revolution.

Their friends still thought it was absurd that they had been dating for over four years now. Apparently Bossuet and Eponine had placed bets on when they would break up. It was true that they fought sometimes, Grantaire's cynicism being the usual cause, but they also made a good pair. Contrary to popular belief they’re not exactly opposites. Grantaire does not always understand Enjolras’s fiery passion for various causes but he still stands with him. Courfeyrac had once joked that Grantaire would be a great My Little Pony character due to his belief in his friends. Courf once tried to imitate Grantaire singing friendship was magic and Enjolras nearly fell on the floor with laughter.

Enjolras had been trying to grade his students’ history tests for the past hour and the answers were starting to make less and less sense. At first, he thought that it was the answers themselves but the steadily growing pain behind his eyes suggests something different. It’s been four days since his students took the test and that’s already a long time for him. Just four more short answers, he can finish this. 

The sound of his phone ringing jerks him awake and sends the final two papers flying off his lap. Sunlight pours in through the windows, giving the empty apartment a warm, almost dreamlike glow.

“Hey E.” Enjolras scrambles to prop his phone up on the couch cushions while picking up the papers that somehow ended up two feet under the coffee table. “Sorry did I wake you?” It’s 7:00 o’clock in the morning Usually, Enjolras would have already been gone on a run and started to get ready to go to work. R had been in Dublin for the past few weeks, it must have been about noon there. 

“No, no I’ve been up for a while. Just had to finish up some grading,” he flashes Grantaire the papers as proof. It’s a lie and a not very convincing one. He’s still wearing the wrinkled Beatles shirt that he fell asleep in, and half of his hair has fallen out of the low bun which he tied it into. 

“Two more weeks and I’m back home. I miss sleeping in the same bed as you,” Grantaire confesses. His hair is styled in a way the Enjolras isn’t used to. It’s more professional than the usual dark and untamed curls. 

“I miss it too,” Enjolras admits. They’d spent the first week or so of Grantaire's trip joking around about how much more they preferred sleeping alone. Enjolras would say that he felt better rested without Grantaire’s snoring and Grantaire would counter that it’s nice that he doesn’t have to fight for space or blanket with Enjolras who loves to sprawl out on their bed. It was all in good fun but now Enjolras would get a picture of every new hotel room with a caption about how much better it would be if Enjolras was there. Enjolras missed Grantaire's presence more every day. The apartment was too quiet with just him. Now there’s only the sound of pencil on paper or him typing away on a keyboard. No more of Grantaire's old school music tastes, nobody walking around the apartment and opening windows in order to see the same drawing in a different light, the guitar in the corner of the room sat unused. 

In the end, he decides to skip the shower, and just brush his teeth and splash some water in his face. Grantaire stays on the entire time, telling stories about the latest opening. Apparently he’s been giving different explanations to the meanings to every person who's asked. Enjolras lets out a harsh laugh when Grantaire admits that he told a woman one of his paintings was his interpretation of what would happen if humans invented time travel. (It’s a fucking street E, a street and buildings. It’s not that deep. Grantaire had said with a laugh.) The goodbye is short and Grantaire leaves him with the promise that it’s only temporary.

He downs his entire tumbler of coffee on the subway in a vain attempt to ease the scratchiness in his throat. Maybe he still has a few cough drops rattling around in the bottom of his bag.

Enjolras loves teaching, he really does. The pay isn’t good but it allows him to talk about what he is passionate about. It also allows him to spend his summers working in political activism. Even during the school year, his time is constantly divided between his job and his activism. Passion doesn’t pay the bills unless you’re Grantaire but that man deserves everything. One of the more obvious downsides of the job is that he can’t exactly hide when his voice is giving out. To make matters worse the dull ache behind his eyes has turned into throbbing pain. 

“Well someone didn’t sleep last night.” Enjolras looks up from his laptop to see Courfeyrac holding two steaming mugs. “Tea, I promised Grantaire to stop giving you coffee.” Courfeyrac smiles and sets one down on his desk with a thump. 

Enjolras gives him a dirty look at the mention of their ongoing coffee vs tea debate. Coffee was 100% better. It tasted better, woke you up, and tea is just water and leaves; why was this even up for debate?

“And I slept,” Enjolras defends himself. There’s no need to mention the fact that he unintentionally passed out on the couch or that he can’t seem to shake his cough.

The thing is, it’s not exactly uncommon for Enjolras to get sick. His immune system has sucked since he was a kid. Courfeyrac and Combeferre can confirm it, they were the ones yelling at him to go to the nurse back when they all went to boarding school together. Joly nearly throws a fit every time Enjolras gets sick and still insists on leading meetings. He can push through though, he always has (Enjolras has only ended up in the hospital a few times and it was fine). 

Enjolras was on autopilot the entire commute back to his apartment. He jams earbuds into his ears and leans on the subway pole. The lights are overly bright in the underground stations. 

The next few days absolutely exhaust him. Before his daily conversations with Grantaire, he chugs water with honey to soothe the growing harshness of his voice. When Grantaire asked him if he was alright Enjolras brushed him off with a smile but he can’t hide the bags under his eyes. One of his AP History students even told him that his handwriting was getting progressively worse throughout the week. Enjolras is well aware that it’s getting bad, that his headache and cough are getting worse. 

Despite what his friends might think he actually knows his body decently well, a lifetime of athletics as seen to that. So, he double-checks the inhaler that he barely uses anyway, tries to get more sleep, and most importantly he doesn’t let his friends worry. 

It doesn’t work. The on and off cough he’s had for the past week has settled in his chest. His constant headache has been edging towards a migraine and despite the extra sleep, Enjolras is perpetually tired. Nine more days, nine more days and Grantaire is home and everything is how it should be.

Maybe he doesn’t know himself as well as he thought. One of his more talkative students is asking a question and usually, he’s happy to go through a what-if scenario but today the chatter sounds like nails on a chalkboard. 

“Go home.” Courfeyrac is at his desk again. 

“I’m fine,” Enjolras slurs, even though he’s slumping over his laptop with his head in his hands.

“You’re sick and we both know it. Go home and take a sick day tomorrow, it’s almost the weekend anyway.”

“All the more reason to just push through,” Enjolras counters. Courf is not impressed and just lets out an exaggerated sigh at Enjolras’s stubbornness. 

“In,” he checks his watch, “approximately 75 minutes you are going to go straight home and rest. I am going to call you and if I think somethings wrong I’ll tell ‘Ferre.” 

“Don’t call Combeferre, he’ll just try and go all doctor mode.”

“Would you rather I call Joly? Because you know I will.” It’s a blatant threat and Enjolras really doesn’t have the energy to convince his nervous friend that he actually is fine. And he is fine, at least fine enough to suppress the coughing that has been sounding progressively worse.

All he wants to do is sleep but he can’t stop tossing and turning. The sheets cling to his body and to his discomfort. Enjolras was glad to let Grantaire do all the talking that night. He had gone on and on about the food there. 

“Potatoes and beer E, they have it all figured out,” Grantaire had insisted with a smile. He seemed happier than usual. He was laughing more and there was a sense of pure joy that Enjolras so rarely saw in the ardent pessimist. 

Around one in the morning Enjolras, having given up on sleeping, stumbled into the bathroom. He doesn’t both with turning the light on. He fumbles around in the cabinet, trying not to knock everything over. Enjolras doesn't even bother with measuring out the cough syrup, just takes a short sip from the bottle. It leaves a sweet and sticky coating on the inside of his mouth and down his throat. The pressure in his head has multiplied by a thousand.

Friday only sort of happens. The school’s fluorescent lights feel closer to tiny suns than cheap light bulbs. At some point, he ends up vomiting in the all-gender bathroom which brings back way too many memories of throwing up before one of his high school soccer games.

xxx

Courfeyrac has known Enjolras for long enough to know that he tends to overcompensate when he’s sick. He’ll put on a brave face, style his hair, wear a collared shirt, and act like he’s fine. It’s painfully obvious just how much of a mess his friend is. 

Enjolras’s cough had deepened and he'd been texting ‘Ferre for advice. His already pale skin has turned clammy and waxlike. The dark circles under his eyes only make them look even more sunken in.

“Alright E, you proved it, you made it through the week,” he grabbed Enjolras by the arm after the last bell rang, “but I’m calling an Uber and taking you home.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered. His attempts to shake Courfeyrac off were weak and uncharacteristic of his friend. “Supposed to be at Musain tonight, I’m leading the meeting.”

“Not like this you're not.” 

Courfeyrac practically drags him out of the school building, still trying to preserve Enjolras’s dignity because nobody needs to see their English teacher dragging their stumbling history teacher through the halls. As soon as Courfeyrac bundles him into a car Enjolras slumps against the window. 

“R is gonna be home soon,” Enjolras whispers to him, his blue eyes bright with fever and skin flush with heat. 

“You know you can call him right? He’ll want to know when you’re sick.” He runs a hand through Enjolras’s sweaty curls.

“No. We talk all the time, he doesn’t need to know that I’m not feeling great.” Even in his current state, he’s obstinate about his position that his boyfriend not be alerted. He’s stubborn to a fault sometimes. 

Courfeyrac has helped drunk friends home plenty of times but never Enjolras. Enjolras very rarely got drunk and never to the point that he couldn’t stand. He hated being robbed of his senses and trademark grace. That’s why it feels so strange to have to physically guide Enjolras around his own apartment.

“You change then go to bed,” Courfeyrac orders. Enjolras doesn’t even argue, just limps toward his bedroom to get a change of clothes.

Courfeyrac has just finished texting Marius that neither of them would be at the meeting when he heard a dull thump from the bathroom followed by silence.

“Enjolras? You ok?” When he doesn’t get a response he moves to knock on the bathroom door. “Hey E, you ok?” No response. The door is unlocked. “Enjolras open up or I’m coming in.” The other side of the door remains silent. 

The door is unlocked and when Courfeyrac bursts in Enjolras is hunched over the toilet, bare chested and shivering. Yellowy pink vomit is dripping down his chin. Enjolras’s hair falls into his face. Courfeyrac is at his side in an instant. Enjolras is shaking, clutching the toilet bowl as if it’ll disappear. Tears streak his pink cheeks. A cough wretches it’s way out of Enjolras’s throat and Courfeyrac can tell that it hurts. 

“Alright ok, it’s ok,” Courfeyrac’s heart is pounding in his chest. He doesn’t need a thermometer to tell that Enjolras is running a high fever. He uses the back of his sleeve to wipe the vomit from Enjolras’s chin. Courfeyrac holds Enjolras close to his chest in an effort to calm the shaking man. “I’m calling ‘Ferre.”

Enjolras pulls back and presses his forehead against the edge of the toilet and shakes his head. 

“I just need to sleep and-” a coughing fit cuts him off. Courfeyrac just rubs his back and scrolls through his contact list to find Combeferre’s number.

xxx

There’s a cold hand on Enjolras’s face and he can’t help but lean into it. When it leaves he instinctively tries to follow it. The world suddenly tilts on its axis and his center of gravity is all wrong. The cold hands return to keep him from spiraling down onto the tile floor. An army of fire ants is marching under his skin, the hands keep them at bay.

It takes him a while to realize that he’s crying.

“Hey Enjolras” Somebody is tapping his cheek. “I need you to open your eyes for me.” He opens them up to slits but immediately shuts them when the unwanted light invades his brain. “And keep them open,” the voice reprimands. 

Combeferre is crouched next to him, concern obvious in the frown lines on his face. 

“I need to take your temperature. Is that ok?” Combeferre holds up a thermometer so that he can see it. Enjolras nods but still cringes at the sudden taste of metal in his mouth. It tastes too much like blood.

Courfeyrac is standing behind Combeferre. He looks nervous, arms crossed and eyes glued to Enjolras. His hair is longer than usual, in need of a cut. The beeping of the thermometer pulls him out of his trance. 

“103 on the dot,” Combeferre announces.

“That’s fine,” Enjolras mutters.

“That is most definitely not fine E. And your cough sounds pretty bad, do you know where your inhaler is?” 

“Nightstand.” 

He lets his friends fuss because if he doesn’t let Combeferre make a commotion out of him being sick then they’ll call Joly which is a whole separate battle. 

“R.” The thought occurs to him suddenly. “Did you call Grantaire?” 

“No, but Enjolras I really think we should call him.” Combeferre presses the back of his hand to Enjolras’s forehead. 

“Don’t call him,” he’s panicking now, “you can’t call him. He’ll worry and he can’t be worried right now. It’ll ruin his trip.” Grantaire worked so hard and for so long to live his dream. 

Enjolras isn’t going to be the one to ruin it. He’ll tell him when he gets back. Ya, that’s a good idea. Grantaire will find out eventually but he doesn’t need to know now. He doesn’t deserve a sick boyfriend messing up his plans.

Don’t mess this up for Grantaire. Don’t mess this up. Don’t mess up.

“Breathe,” Combeferre is pressing his bright red inhaler to his mouth, “hold one two three.” Enjolras does as he is told and accepts the sickly sweet medicine that has been poured into the bottle cap.

The coughing fits have led to a constant ache in his side and the ever mounting pressure in his brain really isn’t helping the situation. The word hospital gets thrown around a few times.  
“No hospital,” Enjolras reaches for Combeferre’s hand.

“You’re really sick E, you should see a doctor.” Combeferre’s voice is gentle and low. 

Enjolras just shakes his head and tries to curl back in on himself because the room is starting to distort before his eyes.

xxx

Combeferre knows how much Enjolras hates hospitals. Even the time that he broke his wrist during a rally gone wrong he had to be dragged into the ER.

Between Combeferre and Courfeyrac they’d managed to drag Enjolras back to his bedroom. Combeferre now sat at the desk chair, watching his friend sleep. The dose of Nyquil that they’d given more wasn’t helping at all. His heavy cough persisted and the fever didn’t appear to be coming down. Enjolras is still shirtless and Combeferre can see the way his ribs expand and contract with each shallow breath. Combeferre had draped cool cloths over Enjolras’s head and neck in an effort to get his temperature down. The water that was dripping out of them created small damp spots on the sheets.

A trashcan full of empty Red Bulls and tissues sits tucked under the desk.

Combeferre prides himself on being level headed. He can approach a disaster with a calm and clinical mindset. In that way, he’s almost the opposite of Courfeyrac. That's part of what makes their friendship work, their little triumvirate. It’s been this way for twenty years and that bond isn’t going anywhere. 

He scrolled up and down his contacts list, finger occasionally returning to hover over Grantaire’s name. Enjolras was a grown man, he could make his own decisions. If he didn’t want to disturb his boyfriend (who was madly in love with him anyway) then Combeferre could respect that. The problem was that if Enjolras’s latest bout of illness ended with a trip to the ER then Grantaire would be pretty damn pissed at all of them for not calling. 

In the end, he calls Joly, hoping that the more experienced doctor will know what to do. Joly picks up after the first ring, even though it’s just past one in the morning. And to nobody's surprise, Joly appears at the apartment door in thirty minutes, leaning on his cane with one hand and the other clutching a bottle of prescription strength Advil. A piece of his brown hair was sticking straight up.

xxx

Enjolras wakes up to the high pitched beep of the thermometer. He’s in his own bed which is surprising seeing as he can’t really seem to recall ever getting there. His chest is burning. He closes his eyes again.

The hands are back but they feel different. Cold and bony fingers dig into the side of his neck and press under his jaw. It makes him cough.

“Hospital now.” It doesn’t sound like Combeferre’s voice and it’s definitely not Courfeyrac. He pries his eyes open to see Joly at eye level with him. Shit.

“I’m fine.” It sounds pathetic even to him.

His friends make it pretty clear that he doesn’t have a choice in this matter. Joly props up his limp body while ‘Ferre manhandles him into a sweatshirt. It’s R’s he thinks distantly when he notices the paint stains on the sleeves. Somebody rubs his back when he can’t stop coughing.

“Alright E, you going to stand up for me?” Courfeyrac’s face appears in front of him, Combeferre sits beside him on the bed. Enjolras nods. 

The entire world is distorted. It reminds Enjolras of time spent on the hot turf during soccer practice; the way that shapes would start to swim near the ground from the heat radiating off of the field. The sun beating down on them, the way his side would cramp and his lungs would burn, the sting of the wet ball hitting you on a cold day. Enjolras swears that he can hear the tweet of the referee’s whistle. His hair has become sticky with sweat and now clings to his forehead and the back of his neck. The aftertaste of overly sweet Gatorade coats his mouth despite having not had a drink since halftime. Something’s wrong. His legs have turned to jello and he is going to fall. Would Coach be madder if he collapsed on the field or if his star player asked to be taken out? Four more minutes and the game is over, he can hang on for another four minutes. They’re winning anyway. 

What did the trainer say that time when a midfielder passed out during practice? All he can remember is pressing a cold water bottle to the kid’s neck while they sat together on the field. Enjolras can’t sit down in the middle of a game. The ball is on their half of the field, the defense can handle it. Enjolras can just stand at the halfway line. There’s a defender on him. Coach had warned him that they would probably guard him man-to-man. 

They’re going to pass to him. Enjolras can see the way the defense moves and one of them sends it up to a waiting midfielder. Enjolras is the next step, if he can get around his defender then he has a near straight shot to the goal. He tries to suck in a deep breath but the air doesn’t reach his lungs. All he wants to do is sit down, right there on the field. Enjolras tries to run though because he’s not one to half ass anything. The midfielder passes it up into empty space and Enjolras can get there. He takes two steps and goes down, not even trying to break his fall.

A woman's voice rings in his ear, saying something that Enjolras can’t decipher. On instinct, he flinches away from a loud clattering sound. The smell of alcohol burns his nostrils. A set of hands maneuver him from his side to his back. No, he can’t breathe when he’s on his back. Is this what drowning feels like? Somebody grabs at his left arm and rather forcefully extends it. He can’t tell if he’s fighting it.

The next time that Enjolras wakes up he’s on his side and Courfeyrac is holding his hand.

“Hey there Sleep Beauty,” Courf whispers and offers him a weak smile. He runs a hand through Enjolras’s sweaty curls.

“Joly is talking with your doctor.” Combeferre appears in his peripheral vision. “They think it’s pneumonia and - hey no leave that on.” Combeferre grabs Enjolras’s hand which was drifting towards whatever they had placed on his face. “Oxygen mask,” Combeferre explains when he notices Enjolras’s confusion, “you were struggling to breathe.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Enjolras counts along with the monitor beeps and fights the pull of sleep.

“I called Grantaire,” Combeferre admits.

“You what?” No. No. No. No. Grantaire can’t deal with Enjolras’s shit right now. Enjolras’s words of protest turn into a coughing fit. Courfeyrac rubs his back while Combeferre looks on apologetically. 

“He deserves to know E, he wanted to know.” Enjolras just stares at him, not trusting himself to not start coughing again. 

“He wasn’t angry,” Courfeyrac offers. “Well, he was but not at you. He was mad that we didn’t call him earlier. And he was already worried because you didn’t call.” If Courfeyrac thinks that he’s helping the situation then he’s wrong. “He’s trying to book a flight out of Dublin.” 

Enjolras has barely processed the words when panic overwhelms him. The beeping of the monitor suddenly skyrockets. Combeferre climbs on the bed with him and holds Enjolras close.

“Deep breathes E, come on listen to me,” Combeferre whispers into his ear. A nurse runs over and tries to get Enjolras to focus on something but all he can think about is Grantaire. Grantaire, who's stopping his dream because of Enjolras. Grantaire, who worked so hard for this opportunity and it just got cut short. No, he should have stayed. He has to stay. Maybe there’s still time. Courfeyrac did say that he hadn’t left yet. Enjolras has to call him, has to tell him to not get on that flight. The world is slipping away and he can’t force the words out. His mind is racing but his body refuses to move. Combeferre’s face is the last thing he sees before his vision fades and the darkness wins.

He wakes up because people are talking. A woman in a white coat is staring down at him, her lips are moving but the noise that comes out is garbled. Enjolras doesn’t want to be awake.  
“Mr. Enjolras.” The woman is closer now, speaking directly to him. “I’m Dr. Vargas,” she continues. “You have pneumonia which is causing fluid to build up in your lungs. That’s why it was so difficult to breathe and why you have to leave the oxygen mask on.” Her voice is detached and practiced. “We’re also giving you medication to bring down your fever.” She glances at the clock. “But we are going to admit you for at least a few days.”

“How long?” Enjolras croaks. “A few days” is not a definite answer and he needs to  
know. 

“We’ll see how long it takes for your oxygen levels to come back up and your fever to go down.” It’s not a better answer but it’s the best one he’s getting. The doctor leaves with a short nod and a glance at the monitor.

“Enjolras, Grantaire’s about to board his flight. Do you want to talk to him?” Combeferre holds up his phone, a forced smile plastered on his face. Enjolras nods and Combeferre switches his phone to speaker mode. Joly, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre silently leave the room and for that he is grateful. 

“Enjolras?” R's voice is panicky.

“I’m fine,” he says and pushes the oxygen mask down so it hangs on his throat. 

“Oh my god,” grantaire starts rambling, “‘Ferre called me and I got so scared. Why didn’t you tell me earlier I would have come? God, I knew something was wrong - E you have to tell me these things, you’re not alone in this.” There’s the sound of rustling papers and Grantaire’s speaking to somebody else. Trying to talk him out of leaving is useless.

“You were happy,” Enjolras whispers. “You were so happy.” Tears pool at the corners of his eyes.

“Enjolras I’m happiest knowing that you’re safe, that you’re healthy.” His voice goes soft.

“I didn’t want to ruin it for you.” 

“You didn’t ruin anything I promise. There was barely a week left and all the big stuff was over. I don’t need to hang out with all the fancy rich people, hell I really didn’t want to do that.” The thought of Grantaire in a suit and tie making small talk to European elites makes Enjolras want to both laugh and vomit. 

His ribs still ache when he coughs and Enjolras can practically hear Grantaire wince on the other end of the line.

“I love you,” Grantaire says. “God Enjolras I love you so much. I’ll always go to you. You know that right? You’re more important to me than anything.” Grantaire only makes grand proclamations like this when he’s either very worried or very drunk. Enjolras feels guilty for causing it but he’s glad that it’s not the latter.

“I love you too,” Enjolras swears. 

The next six? Seven? Eight? Hours pass in a drugged out haze. At one point he wakes up to a sharp pain on his right side and stays conscious just long enough to watch a nurse inject something into his IV line. Joly sits beside him, sleeping silently. Courfeyrac shows up with a pile of food from the vending machine and skips an actual meal in favor of eating candy bars. Combeferre is in and out of his room, always on the phone. Probably calling the rest of their friends Enjolras muses. He pictures Cosette in a pale pink button up, scolding Marius for the time that he burned his hand on a still hot tea kettle.

One moment Grantaire isn’t there and the next he is. Enjolras doesn’t notice Grantaire coming in, just turns over to his other side and sees him sitting in the plastic chair that Joly once occupied. 

Neither of them speak, just look at each other. Grantaire’s dark hair is a mess and his shirt is wrinkled but Enjolras knows that he definitely looks worse.

“I’m sorry R,” Enjolras chokes out.

Grantaire shakes his head and offers him a smile. Daylight seeps in through blinds and cuts across Grantaire’s face harshly. 

“Don’t apologize, we’ve already been over that shit.”

Grantaire climbs into bed with him and Enjolras is happy to allow R to practically cradle him against his broad chest.

“Don’t need to talk right now,” Grantaire murmurs as he runs a hand through Enjolras’s curls.

So they don’t, not another word passes between the two of them for the better part of an hour. Enjolras watches the dust particles float in and out of the shafts of light that had been cut by the blinds. Grantaire’s arms are strong and Enjolras lets himself drift knowing that Grantaire will be right there when he wakes up.

**Author's Note:**

> Soccer season got canceled and online school is rough so I wrote this.
> 
> I didn't really edit this so please feel free to leave any typos/grammar mistakes that you notice in the comments.


End file.
